The Talisman

Wolf was going with the moon.

He felt it happen as the patch of sun coming in through the ventilation square began to rise higher and higher, as the quality of the light became reddish. It was too early to go with the moon; she was not fully pregnant yet and it would hurt him. Yet it would happen, as it always happened to Wolfs eventually, in season or out of it, when they were pressed too long and too hard. Wolf had held himself in check for a long time because it was what Jacky wanted. He had performed great heroisms for Jack in this world. Jack would dimly suspect some of them, yet never come close to apprehending their incredible depth and breadth.

But now he was dying, and he was going with the moon, and because the latter made the former seem more than bearable—almost holy, and surely ordained—Wolf went in relief, and in gladness. It was wonderful not to have to struggle anymore.

His mouth, suddenly deep with teeth.

3

After Heck left, there were office sounds: the soft scrape of chairs being moved, a jingle of the keys on Sunlight Gardener’s belt, a file-cabinet door running open and then closed.

“Abelson. Two hundred and forty dollars and thirty-six cents.”

Sounds of keys being punched. Peter Abelson was one of the boys on OS. Like all of the OS boys, he was bright, personable, and had no physical defects. Jack had seen him only a few times, but he thought Abelson looked like Dondi, that homeless waif with the big eyes in the comic strips.

“Clark. Sixty-two dollars and seventeen cents.”

Keys being punched. The machine rumbled as Sonny hit the TOTAL key.

“That’s a real fall-off,” Sonny remarked.

“I’ll talk to him, never fear. Now please don’t chatter at me, Sonny. Mr. Sloat arrives in Muncie at ten-fifteen and it’s a long drive. I don’t want to be late.”

“Sorry, Reverend Gardener.”

Gardener made some reply Jack didn’t even hear. At the name Sloat, a great shock had walloped him—and yet part of him was unsurprised. Part of him had known this might be in the cards. Gardener had been suspicious from the first. He had not wanted to bother his boss with trivialities, Jack figured. Or maybe he had not wanted to admit he couldn’t get the truth out of Jack without help. But at last he had called—where? East? West? Jack would have given a great lot just then to know. Had Morgan been in Los Angeles, or New Hampshire?

Hello, Mr. Sloat. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but the local police have brought me a boy—two boys, actually, but it’s only the intelligent one I’m concerned with. I seem to know him. Or perhaps it’s my . . . ah, my other self who knows him. He gives his name as Jack Parker, but . . . what? Describe him? All right. . . . 

And the balloon had gone up.

Please don’t chatter at me, Sonny. Mr. Sloat arrives in Muncie at ten-fifteen . . .

Time had almost run out.

I told you to get your ass home, Jack . . . too late now.

All boys are bad. It’s axiomatic.

Jack raised his head a tiny bit and looked across the room. Gardener and Sonny Singer sat together on the far side of the desk in Gardener’s basement office. Sonny was punching the keys of an adding machine as Gardener gave him set after set of figures, each figure following the name of an Outside Staffer, each name neatly set in alphabetical order. In front of Sunlight Gardener was a ledger, a long steel file-box, and an untidy stack of envelopes. As Gardener held one of these envelopes up to read the amount scribbled on the front, Jack was able to see the back. There was a drawing of two happy children, each carrying a Bible, skipping down the road toward a church, hand-in-hand. Written below them was I’LL BE A SUNBEAM FOR JESUS.

“Temkin. A hundred and six dollars even.” The envelope went into the steel file-box with the others that had been recorded.

“I think he’s been skimming again,” Sonny said.

“God sees the truth but waits,” Gardener said mildly. “Victor’s all right. Now shut up and let’s get this done before six.”

Sonny punched the keys.

The picture of Jesus walking on the water had been swung outward, revealing a safe behind it. The safe was open.

Jack saw that there were other things of interest on Sunlight Gardener’s desk: two envelopes, one marked JACK PARKER and the other PHILIP JACK WOLFE. And his good old pack.

The third thing was Sunlight Gardener’s bunch of keys.

From the keys, Jack’s eyes moved to the locked door on the left-hand side of the room—Gardener’s private exit to the outside, he knew. If only there was a way—

“Yellin. Sixty-two dollars and nineteen cents.”

Gardener sighed, put the last envelope into the long steel tray, and closed his ledger. “Apparently Heck was right. I believe our dear friend Mr. Jack Parker has awakened.” He got up, came around the desk, and walked toward Jack. His mad, hazy eyes glittered. He reached into his pocket and came out with a lighter. Jack felt a panic rise inside him at the sight of it. “Only your name isn’t really Parker at all, is it, my dear boy? Your real name is Sawyer, isn’t it? Oh yes, Sawyer. And someone with a great interest in you is going to arrive very, very soon. And we’ll have all sorts of interesting things to tell him, won’t we?”

Sunlight Gardener tittered and flicked back the Zippo’s hood, revealing the blackened wheel, the smoke- darkened wick.

“Confession is so good for the soul,” he whispered, and struck a light.